I MISSED MY DESTINY
They say looking for love at work is not serious. I wasn’t searching anyway. Love found me. Not in the guise of a charming colleague with a coffee cup and a tie, but as a silent man in a black Mazda in line for petrol. I worked at a petrol station.
At first, he just watched silently. Then he started to smile. Eventually, it seemed he learned my schedule and only showed up when I was on shift. My name was Charlotte. I was 33 back then. Quite the character: platinum blonde, bold, candid, with a temper sharpened by working in a male-dominated environment. And him… he was different. Forty-two, eyes the color of a February sky, his shoulders looked like they could break down walls. And that smile… warm, calm, with a slight boyish charm.
His name was Charles. He lived next to the petrol station with his son and a dog named Rocky. His son was from a previous marriage. His wife had left them both. He didn’t work. He was a landlord, receiving earnings from four apartments inherited from his grandmother, simply living his life. Traveling, strolling, and taking it easy.
Then one day, he pulled his car up to the pump and said, “Come on, I’ll show you a town you’ll fall in love with.” Then there was another town. And another. We sipped ale in half-empty pubs, stayed at seaside hotels in the off-season, spent nights listening to the waves, wandered markets in London and Brighton, and enjoyed jazz in Liverpool.
I fell in love. I lost myself in him. I had always been independent, skeptical of conventions, yet three months in, I was living with him. We didn’t formalize anything, we just were together.
I started talking about having a child, dreaming about it. Imagining walks with the three of us: him, me, and the little one. But Charles was adamant. He said he’d already “done his time” being a father and wouldn’t do it a second time. Children, he insisted, hinder freedom.
“You can’t just hop over to Dublin for the weekend when you’re pregnant, Charlotte, let alone with a pram on the cobblestones. It’s not life, it’s a prison.” He said this with such calm certainty that I, almost hypnotized, started fearing the idea of a child myself.
Years rolled by. I became a peroxide maid in his carefree life. Cooking, ironing, buying his favorite cheeses, laughing at the right moments, while he… he watched more football, lazily flipped through the paper, and called me “the one.”
His son grew up. Initially, he despised me. Then looked at me with interest. Eventually, he brought home a girl—just like I was six years back. Young, vibrant, and blonde. She stayed over, laughed at my jokes, and called me “Charlie.”
I watched her and understood everything. I wanted to scream, “Run! Don’t miss your life like I did! Don’t disappear, don’t lose your voice, don’t abandon your dreams. You can still change everything!”
And me? I’ve stopped believing. I’m 39. No children. I quit my job, lost friends, and my parents are gone. It’s just me, Charles, Rocky, and a love that’s rusted into a habit.
He still doesn’t work. Still collects rent, still has a pint each evening. And I set a plate of salad in front of him as always and wait. Wait to feel that it’s not all gone. But it’s self-deception.
Sometimes at night, when he’s asleep, I step onto the balcony and gaze at the sky. I feel like with enough will, anything can change. But it’s too late. Much too late.
